


Painted in Red

by insatiablegaydesire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Self-Reflection, a minor warning for very vague references to viserys molesting daenerys, and i am once again heavy with my metaphors, dany is so soft, i promise its not too bad but if youre particularly sensitive pls keep it in mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 10:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18386474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insatiablegaydesire/pseuds/insatiablegaydesire
Summary: For as long as she could remember, Daenerys’ life had revolved around the color red. From Dragonstone, to Essos, to Winterfell, it followed her wherever she went. This time, it finds her in the hair of a certain Stark.





	Painted in Red

For as long as she could remember, Daenerys’ life had revolved around the color red. The night she was born, even with a sky as dark as the ocean that roared below it, she was told that the moon glowed scarlet in reflection of the Targaryen crest. Her mother departed the world as she came into it. Red was the blood that stained the sheets, and red was the flush on her newborn cheeks. 

When she and Viserys left Dragonstone, smuggled like stolen goods in Ser Willem Darry’s arms, their ship had sails the color of a deep cherry wine. And when they arrived in Essos, the door to their house was the ruby to her amethyst eyes. She only remembered snippets from her time in Braavos, but it was all tinted in red: the sweet berries that thrived in the late summer haze, the brick that paved every market street, the happy glow that adorned Viserys like a crown wherever he went.

But after Ser Willem passed, his face drained of all color, her life drained of color too. The servants ran away with anything of value. They took bottles of merlot, jars of bright red spices, even a ruby gown that the kind old knight had gifted her for her last name day. They took it all away, as much as they could carry, stuffed deep in holed pockets and fraying satchel bags. Her life became toned in shades of brown: the dirt, the sand, the rags they were now forced to wear after their old clothes were robbed right off their backs.

It was only when Viserys grew bitter with resentment under the care of Magister Illyrio that red made its return.

Suddenly, red was all she knew. The blood would rush to fill her face after Viserys striked her, to the point he’d strike her again for clouding her pale beauty. And his eyes would burn more red than violet on certain nights when he’d had too much to drink, and slipped his way into her bed. He never truly took her, that would mean losing the most expensive thing he had left. But he laid next to her, and took what he could. In the morning, she would sneak away to bathe, and scrub herself raw to rid the memory of his burning touch.

When her brother finally decided to sell her off, the Dothraki came in red. The fabrics flashed crimson and cardinal and carmine as their horses raced by, whipping around her gauzy dress and tearing up a storm in the dust. Her wedding was like her birth; blood was spilled and a new life was created. But it was not the life she wanted.

The crystallized dragon eggs kept her comfort during this time. She would find herself reaching most often to caress the obsidian egg swirled with scarlet, as if she knew it was this one that would save her soul. And when they burned with her on the pyre with her lifeless Khal, and the black and red dragon hopped onto her shoulder, she found that she was right.

Red had followed her around her whole life, she knew this. But she never expected to find it in a lover. 

Sansa’s hair was fire, her eyes ice. When she spent too long in the cold, her nose would turn pink. And when she and Daenerys spent their nights creating a mess of their sheets, her whole body would flush a special shade of rose, just for her. 

Sometimes she couldn’t help but stare at Sansa everywhere she went. She would find herself drifting off during council meetings, lost in the way the woman’s amber hair curled delicately over the curve of her shoulder. It was worse during nights. The flames of every candle shone on Sansa’s hair, making her appear as fire itself. The Targaryen words were fire and blood; if Sansa was her fire, what was her blood?

Was it the blood she spilled? The lives of those who stole others’, the burgundy that painted the stones of the now freed cities. 

Was it the blood she was born of? The legacy of her mother Rhaella, and all she had done to protect her children from the wretched claws of the world.

Or was it the blood that ran through her very veins? Perhaps fire and blood simply meant her and her love, a dangerous yet irresistible match.

Whatever her blood, she knew that Sansa was her fire. How could she not be, when every kiss lit a spark at its touch? When every time she caught her gaze she felt like a red priest enraptured by the flames? 

Even now, as they laid side by side atop the furs, both sweaty and beyond pleased, she couldn’t help but reach out for her fire’s warmth. 

“Again? Already? I know they say the Starks are wild, but I think even I may need a break after that.” Sansa laughed wholeheartedly without shame, a familiar post-sex rosy hue spreading across her chest and up toward her neck. 

Daenerys let out a laugh of her own before she said, “No, not that.” Her features softened as she reached out a hand to tuck an auburn lock behind Sansa’s ear. “I just want to hold you.”

“Oh.” Sansa melted like a candle close to a flame. “Come here then.” She held out her arms and Daenerys moved herself within them, settling herself atop Sansa’s naked chest. Sansa’s arms wrapped around her felt like the only home she’d ever known.

“You know,” Daenerys said. “I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Really?” Sansa asked, her voice caught in her throat. “But, your dragons-”

“-are dearly loved by me, but they’re just dragons. _You_ are my fire.” 

Sansa smiled, though still confused. “And what does being your fire entail?”

“Keeping me warm. Keeping me loved. Sparking that same warmth and love in me to share. And lighting my pathway to happiness as only the brightest fire can.”

Sansa leaned down to capture Daenerys’ lips in a heated kiss. When they broke apart, her eyes opened to reveal tears brimming at the edges. “Gods, Dany. I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” 

And fire and blood met again in the middle, their bodies intertwined, painting the room in shades of red as only a pair such as them could accomplish.

**Author's Note:**

> a little something that i really really wanted to add because i thought it was hilarious but would ruin the entire mood of the piece:
> 
>  
> 
> “Well, if I’m your fire, then you’re my winter,” Sansa said, moving from their cuddling position to rest her arms atop Daenerys’ knees.
> 
> “Why?” Daenerys asked, a slight tilt to her head.
> 
> “Because I’ll make sure you’re coming.”
> 
> And then Daenerys was promptly reminded that fires don’t just burn, they lick too.


End file.
